


Something Battered

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: Round 33Prompt/Prompter:  “Something borrowed, something blue” from beckonadeKink:  Bruises and marksSummary:  All the prompt & kink, none of the plot





	Something Battered

Both of them like bruises, fortunately, though Doyle likes them better than Bodie does. They're lucky in that likeness, lucky in their line of work, which provides enough marks on their bodies for anyone's fetish. A bruise is a living injury even more than a bullet hole or a cracked bone. Every scar writes their triumphs, their survival, on their bodies, so it's no wonder the marks are sexy, but most physical trauma takes longer to heal and forces them to make room for the cast, avoid the bandages, put some acts and some positions off limits. Bruises flush and fade through their rainbow in little more than a fortnight, making each of their bodies a garden to tend. 

The oldest ones are transparent on Ray but just barely visible on Bodie's milky skin. They look like faint spots of tan, as if he'd sunbathed under a weak magnifying glass or missed a spot with the sunscreen (though actually Bodie does not tan). Those aren't sensitive any more, unless Ray chooses to suck there and mark again. Foreplay bruises. Opportunities, like pencil notes on canvas, their pleasure blooming in what has not happened yet rather than in making a private record of what has happened already.

The ones made a week later are yellow and grey and green, only sensitive if they went deep. (Too many go deep.) Sometimes the tangle of sweetness and fear, of love and work, is too much, and both partners stroke and press the marks of realised danger until dull pain offsets whatever feels cloying or clinging, whatever makes them impatient of days without risk. Ray arches toward those hurting, passionate touches; Bodie grins and gives him more. He likes his own injuries palmed while Ray is fucking him, the stretch and pain in his arse harmonising with the jazz jangle of the bruises. “Your hands,” he begs, “your hands,” and Ray knows what that means until he's too deep in his own need and pleasure to hear. When that's sated, he remembers to kiss and kiss while he pushes in the right places until Bodie moans again.

Ray bruises as royal a purple in the first handful of days as Bodie (with his princes' names) has ever seen; his own bruises are bluer. In the throes of appreciation, Ray's been known to call them the colour of his eyes. Bodie tells him not to try for poetry, just let him in, open already and let Bodie in. On his back, Ray can use hands and even legs to find the warmer patches where that blue blood is pooled; once, on request, Bodie wore a blindfold, rubbed his face over Ray to find his warmest places, though he soon gave up on bruises and went for more heated and more sensitive skin. Ray didn't mind.

It's only the newest bruises, swollen and red, that they don't play with at all. That first day or two, remembering the enemies who beat Bodie makes Ray's skin flush with anger and guilt; Bodie yells and stomps and glares, wanting a throat in his hands, a target for his gun. New damage isn't sexy to either of them, just another reminder that while they're both alive now, all their time is borrowed.


End file.
